‘It doesn’t matter. A Picasso is still a Picasso. And your father is still one of the most famous British sculptors of the last century. With the right PR, at the right gallery, the art world will still see his genius.’
She looked up at him.
‘Do you really think so?’
‘I’m no expert, but my mother is. And I bet she can’t wait to get her hands on him.’
47
Roger looked enviously around the grand Hampstead home of his friend Alan Parker, desperate to get the pleasantries over with so that they could talk business. He had little in common with his old school pal and talk at the dinner table of Alan’s life in his City firm of solicitors and the renovation of their new Umbrian villa had almost driven Roger to tears.
‘That was splendid, Beatrice,’ smiled Alan, looking fondly at his wife as she cleared away the remains of the pannacotta.
‘Coffee for everyone?’ said Beatrice, clearly eager to busy herself with more domesticity.
‘Rebecca, why don’t you go and help?’ said Roger. ‘I just have to go and discuss a few matters with Alan.’
Rebecca pulled her mouth into a tiny pout before acquiescing. Roger had called Alan several days earlier for some off-the-record legal advice about the eco-hotels proposition. He hadn’t yet mentioned it to Rebecca – she would have got too excited – without knowing first if he could afford to jump in with Ricardo, both financially and legally.
‘So, to business,’ smiled Alan, walking out of the room and returning with a manila folder and a decanter of brandy. He shut the dining-room door and returned to his seat.
‘You have a 20 per cent shareholding in Milford that you want to get rid of,’ he said, pouring Roger and himself a generous measure. ‘Is that correct?’
‘That’s right. A superb business opportunity has come my way so I want to liquidize a few of my assets,’ said Roger a little boastfully.
‘Do you have to sell the Milford shares?’ said Alan taking a sip of his claret.
Roger bristled at Alan’s implication.
‘Of course not,’ said Roger blustering. ‘but frankly, now Saul is no longer with us I’m losing interest in the company. I feel my money would be better tied up elsewhere.’
Alan pulled a slight face that irritated Roger immensely. A look that said: I disagree with you.
‘Well, I’m no expert in the luxury goods sector but from what I read in the business pages, your niece appears to be turning the company around nicely. Perhaps if you held off on selling them for another year or so … ?’
‘I shouldn’t be saying this,’ said Roger, leaning forward as if to share a secret, ‘but Milford is all smoke and mirrors. A party in a shop and a few bags hanging off the arms of celebrities does not a corporate renaissance make.’
Alan nodded.
‘In which case, you should take a look at this.’ Alan opened the file and pulled out a thin document which had various paragraphs of text highlighted.
‘Thank you for getting me copies of Milford’s Articles of Association and Memorandum. Have you actually ever read them?’
Roger shook his head.
‘It’s what we pay lawyers to do,’ he blustered.
‘Everything looks very straightforward, nothing too onerous – except paragraph four of the attached shareholders agreement.’
He handed it to Roger whose eyes scanned the page.
‘So other shareholders have a first refusal option on the shares?’ he said, looking up at Alan.
‘Do you think they will want them?’ replied Alan.
Roger shook his head condescendingly. ‘My sisters Julia and Virginia who each have 5 per cent have neither the desire nor the money to do so. But Emma is on such a power trip that perhaps she will be sniffing around them.’
‘She’ll almost certainly want them,’ agreed Alan taking a sip of brandy. ‘Buying your shareholding would take her over 75 per cent and she could control the passing of special resolutions. Essentially it would put her in an unassailable position.’
Roger snorted, his face looked pinched. He hated the thought of Emma claiming an even bigger prize.
‘Well, she might want the shares but I seriously doubt she could personally raise the money to buy them. Milford might be a donkey but to somebody who knows what they’re doing, it’s a potentially valuable business. What do you reckon it’s worth then?’
‘I have no idea. I’d need to see the accounts, assess company debts, its assets,’ replied Alan. ‘It’s a recovering company but it’s hardly Gucci.’
‘Ball park?’ said Roger eagerly. ‘Fifty million? Which would make my shareholding worth nearly ten mill.’ He had stood up now and was pacing around the room. ‘I figured about ten million,’ he muttered as if he was talking to himself. ‘Emma couldn’t afford that. So we’d throw it open, maybe get a few companies interested. I was thinking LVMH or the Richemont Group, or maybe one of those private equity organizations. That would push the price up – there’s plenty of people prepared to pay top dollar for a heritage company like ours.’
‘Possibly,’ said Alan sagely. ‘But in my opinion, in the light of the favourable press she’s been getting, Emma might be able to raise the funds to buy you out even if a company valuation went higher than fifty million pounds.’
‘Well she’s going to have to pay me top-whack, same as everybody else.’
Alan looked awkward.
‘Ah, well, there’s your problem, Roger. Should Emma or any other shareholders wish to buy your shares they can do so on the “fair valuation” principle. It’s a fairly standard clause in family-owned companies.’
Roger stopped pacing and looked at Alan.
‘So we fix a mutually agreeable price?’
‘In principle, yes. However, fair valuations in my experience tend to be at a rate far below the price you would get on the open market. Because as you yourself point out, the company has only just turned a corner, Emma could get them for a steal.’
Alan puffed out his cheeks and looked up to the ceiling. ‘If the company did have a valuation of fifty million, to sell a 20 per cent shareholding to a fellow shareholder … I don’t know. I suspect she’d be looking to pay about two million quid.’
Roger looked at him in horror. ‘For 20 per cent of the company! I thought you said fair valuation! That doesn’t sound bloody fair to me!’
Alan put up his hands.
‘Don’t shoot the messenger, old boy. You’ve come to me as a friend, Roger, and I’m telling you how it is – or could be.’
A cloud of anxiety crossed Roger’s face. He thought of Rebecca in her St Tropez villa or at the penthouse suite in Ricardo’s Bahia development or the Chelsea townhouse, all the places they’d always talked about owning when they finally realized their money. But two million? Two million quid wouldn’t even buy them a three-bedroom flat in Cadogan Square, let alone the beautiful Glebe Place mews Rebecca had her eye on.
‘So what should I do?’
‘If you want the maximum worth of your shareholding, the last thing you want is for Emma to buy them. You need to persuade the other shareholders to sell, to off-load Milford lock, stock and barrel to a luxury goods conglomerate or a private equity house.’
‘And how do I do that?’
Alan laughed.
‘Put the feelers out to the big boys on the quiet. If the price is right, I think the shareholders will snap their hands off – it could even tempt Emma. However well Milford is doing at the moment, it’s a volatile business and if one of the big luxury firms comes knocking she’d be crazy to turn them down.’
For a moment, Roger smiled, thinking of the prospect of all that money, but then he remembered Emma and her ludicrous ideas of running a business and his smile faded. It might take a bomb to shift her from that chairman’s seat.
‘Thanks, Alan,’ said Roger, raising his glass, ‘you’ve given me an excellent idea.’
48
Rob didn’t call Emma the Monday she knew
he was returning from New York. He didn’t call her on Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday, by which point the silence was hurtful and distracting. Analytical by nature, Emma ran through in her head the reasons why she had not heard from him. There was a slim possibility he was still in the States, but as hope paled into disappointment, the likely explanation was that he was avoiding her and that in his mind at least, the night in Somerset had been a grade A mistake.
It was almost ten o’clock on Thursday night and she was still at work. She loved the security of her office, a space where she felt in control, and vocation filled the loneliness.
Closing down her computer, she yawned and slipped on her coat, knowing the last few hours hadn’t been especially productive and mocked herself; she was the CEO of a company, why couldn’t she do something as simple as call him? But the thought of the conversation, of Rob’s apologies and polite excuses, made her squirm. The truth was, she’d been stupid. She knew Rob’s reputation and his limited attention span with the opposite sex. She should have known better and now she had to deal with it, wondering how best to do that as if she were stamping out a business problem.
Her phone went as she strode out of the foyer.
‘Emma,’ she said briskly.
‘It’s Rob. Sorry it’s late.’
She felt a surge of pleasure.
‘How are you?’ she said as casually as possible.
‘I got back from New York yesterday. It’s been hectic’
‘How’s your father?’
‘We had a few difficult meetings,’ he said, his voice sounding on edge.
There was a long yawning pause.
‘So are you around this weekend?’
‘Mostly,’ she said cautiously.
‘I thought we could have lunch on Saturday at the house.’
Her first thought was that she didn’t want to see Morton in what could be construed as a first date. Her second thought was that it was lunch. Not dinner as he had suggested at the cider farm.
‘From your silence you don’t fancy lunch at Winterfold.’
‘I was thinking.’
‘So how about we go for a ride?’
‘Very well,’ she said, unable to stop herself smiling broadly into the receiver. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday after my run.’
Winterfold’s stables, on the west perimeter of the estate, had been leased to a local riding school for several years. Rob kept a horse there, a sixteen-hand chestnut, and had arranged for Emma to ride a beautiful strong-looking bay. They had agreed to meet there; Emma was late, having changed clothes three times before deciding that her cherry-red sweater and tight cream jodhpurs were perhaps just a little too sexy but they were, at least, appropriate.
Rob had already saddled up and was sitting astride his horse without a riding hat, looking cavalier and certain.
‘I never had you as the equestrian type,’ she smiled, wedging her foot in the stirrup.
‘You know I like to keep you on your toes.’
She bit her tongue, feeling they were already on the verge of some teasing banter. She wanted today to be easy and already she felt as nervous as a teenager.
‘Where do you want to go?’
She knew immediately. The lake in the northern corner of the grounds. It was quiet and pretty and romantic.
They barely spoke on the way up there and were just content to take in the magnificence of the Winterfold estate. It never failed to take her breath away no matter how often she saw it. Today bright winter sunshine skimmed the long grass, turning it blonde like champagne.
The lake dazzled silver. There was a diving board at one end which looked as if it hadn’t been used in a decade. They dismounted and tied the horses up to a tree and went to sit on an old gnarled log by the water’s edge.
Their hands were inches away from each other’s resting on the log. The sunshine on her face was making her feel bolder. She reached her fingers along the log until they touched his, feeling deliriously contented for one split second before he edged his hand slowly away.
That tiniest of movements was like a slap across the face.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, pushing his fingers back clumsily towards her.
Emma gave a low, cynical laugh. The look on his face was transparent. Embarrassment, regret, kindness. She shuddered. Or was it pity?
‘It was a mistake,’ she said before she could think. She meant it to be a question, but self-preservation meant it came out more a statement of fact.
‘You think so?’
How maddening language could be, thought Emma, trying to read the subtleties in his voice, subtleties that change how one was understood. Had he emphasized the word you which suggested that he didn’t think it was a mistake?
‘You’re embarrassed about Somerset, aren’t you?’ she said finally.
‘Embarrassed, no.’
‘But it was a mistake.’
‘In so much as I can’t commit to anything right now.’
Her eyes didn’t leave his face. Was he totally clueless or completely insensitive? Either way, she was angry. Angry with him for bringing her out for a romantic ride only to let her down. Angry at him for spoiling her special spot on the Winterfold estate. Angry at herself for learning that Rob couldn’t commit to any woman and for allowing herself to think that it would be different between them. Emma was not a naturally gifted actor; even as a young child she had found lying awkward, not just because of her integrity but because she knew she would always get found out. But this time, needs must.
‘You and me both,’ she smiled with as much brightness as she could muster. ‘It’s such a relief you said it.’
‘Right,’ he smiled slowly.
He kissed her on the cheek. It felt like a brief goodbye. There certainly felt like no reason to stay by the lake.
Untying their horses he shouted over to her.
‘Race you back to the Stables.’
As she galloped along, her horse edging in front of Rob’s, the cold, fresh air slapping against her face, two small tears raced down her face and she convinced herself it was just the wind.
49
Cassandra set about finding Giles’s replacement immediately, even though she knew the task would be a difficult one. After all, it was hardly the sort of job she could advertise in the Media Guardian. Rive’s editor-at-large needed incredible natural flair and an enormous Rolodex of contacts. More importantly they needed to understand what made Cassandra Grand tick.
Well, let’s see what this one is made of, she thought as she strode through San Lorenzo towards one of the best tables in the house. Jessica West was already waiting for her. Cassandra’s eyes darted over her, inspecting the cut of her shirt, the brand of her bag, noting her manicured nails, freshly blow-dried hair and discreet make-up. Cassandra smiled inwardly. Jessica West had passed the first test. The stylist had only recently come to Cassandra’s attention. She had already met her of course – at the Versace party during Milan Fashion Week – and Cassandra remembered thinking that Jessica was bright and confident. She had been making a name for herself dressing celebrities; so much so that several big names had been requesting that she style them when they were being shot for Rive magazine. She was very beautiful, extremely thin – even slimmer than Cassandra – which she both admired and resented. It was a fine line.
‘As you know there is the possibility of an editor-at-large position at Rive,’ said Cassandra, cutting straight to the chase. ‘I’m looking for someone with excellent social contacts and an unparalleled knowledge of fashion. It is a job traditionally held by a talented writer, editor and features visionary, shall we say. But I am willing to change the job description for the right person.’
‘Would it involve any styling?’ asked Jessica. She had deliberately sought out Cassandra at the Versace party and was glad her hard work was paying dividends. And to think she almost hadn’t gone.
Cassandra arched an eyebrow. Jessica was no Giles. She doubted whether the girl could string a s
entence together but it wouldn’t do any harm to have an additional member of staff on board who had a knack of charming celebrities; after all, Deborah Kane was hardly coming up with the goods these days.
‘We could be flexible. Tell me about yourself.’
‘I’ve dressed loads of stars for all the big red carpet events this year. I’ve been in New York a lot since the summer so I have great contacts with the East Coast publicists. Plus I have excellent music contacts – I went out with Rob Holland the CEO of Hollander for a long time.’
‘Rob Holland?’ asked Cassandra, suddenly curious. ‘Rob rents our family home Winterfold.’
‘What a coincidence,’ smiled Jessica. ‘I adore Winterfold.’
‘Funny I never saw you in the village. When did you split up?’
‘Oh, it petered off a couple of months ago,’ said Jessica vaguely. ‘We’re still friends though,’ she added quickly.
This was the other reason Cassandra had wanted to meet Jessica apart from her growing reputation as a celebrity stylist. When she had met Jessica at the Versace party she knew she had seen the striking red-head somewhere before. It eventually dawned on her that it had been at Laura Hildon’s wedding; she had been sitting next to Rob in church and had danced cheek-to-cheek with him at the black tie dinner.
‘Rob is quite close to my cousin, Emma,’ said Cassandra with a small smile. ‘I never could work out what was going on between them.’
‘Emma?’ She searched Cassandra’s face, and seeing she had found an ally began to talk more openly.
‘She’s just his landlady. I’m sure she fancied Rob, probably still does but he wasn’t interested.’
‘And how do you know that?’ asked Cassandra.
She saw a split second look of distaste cross Jessica’s face.
‘Aside from the fact that she’s hardly his type,’ she said, her mouth turned downwards, ‘I don’t think anyone will ever get a look in with Rob’s ex-girlfriend Madeline and child hovering in the background. I mean, Rob even spent Thanksgiving with them. Plus I saw him and Madeline together in New York at Sant Ambroeus and they looked very cosy. I’d say they were definitely back together.’
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